


Proposition

by Jenni_Snake



Series: Who You Are [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenni_Snake/pseuds/Jenni_Snake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of friendship, one night between Garak and Bashir might strengthen their relationship, or might dissolve it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [areaderinpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/areaderinpink/gifts).



> This is Part 1 of a seven part series set in late Season 3 (apologies for any inconsistencies). This part can be read on its own. The series will end up being an AU.

_Would you dine with me tonight, my dear doctor?  
  
May I request the pleasure of your company for a meal this evening?_ __  
  
No, neither of those would do. There was a lack of sincerity, at least in the interpretation if not in the intent.  
  
“Julian...”  
  
Bashir looked taken aback. There it was, the proper opening. Had he really never used his given name before?  
  
“Julian,” Garak repeated, though it sounded strange, even to him, “come to dinner with me tonight.”  
  
And he held his breath.  
  
Bashir studied him, blinked, brow furrowed.  
  
“Of... course,” he answered guardedly, head tilted to the side. Certainly this seemed like an unnecessary statement of the obvious.  
  
“No,” Garak said, leaning in an inch closer to the young man who had sat like this, across from him at the lunch table, hundreds of times before, taking him lightly by the sleeve, caressing the material of his uniform between his thumb and forefinger. Garak’s heart beat as if it was missing every other movement, embarrassed for him, excusing itself from its part in this bold, foolish, inevitable act. He inhaled sharply - a lost word, the perfect word, gone with that breath, nothing to replace it. And still, there remained a meaning to convey, an intention to make clear.  
  
“No,” he repeated, examining the fabric he held as if it were an unknown splendor from which he could not tear his eyes. “What I wanted... what I mean to say is...”  
  
At this proximity, he could hear in the doctor’s breath the same feeling, the same shallow rhythm that produced itself from time to time when they were together, the unmistakable tell, like that of a card player too eager to win his prize and too unskilled to hide his good fortune. And in that same manner, echoing each breath with his own, Garak knew, on instinct, like a deer in the forest set upon by hunters and ready to bolt, that this question could not be formed in mere words. How does one engender such profound feeling in an utterance? Was this not why composers chose the sonorous route of silence expressed in a million notes without one meddlesome syllable, why painters painted and lovers wrote love letters instead?  
  
A pause, a beat, his eyes leapt from his own pale thumb to fix their target. Everything needed to be encapsulated in this one look: question, intention, candor.  Spend not just this evening with me, but every evening hence, without question, without reserve, merely as a matter of course. Two paths converging, leading in the same direction...  
  
Then, in near simultaneity, each less than a breath apart, two reactions from the doctor - the first of recognition - but this was such an instant, so fleeting that its existence could have been called into doubt had not all other signposts pointed in its direction, but... the next, the second, unanticipated, incomprehensible, the second reaction:  
  
Abhorrence. Repugnance.The impossibility of the thing writ large on his face. The horror. Then, delayed, a second late, but there nonetheless, the physical repulsion, tearing himself away. Pulling his arm back. And, finally, the word, the terminus, the extinguisher of light, cold, harsh, brutal.  
  
“No.”  
  
And, with that he stood, and was gone.  
  
*  
  
For Garak the next days passed in a haze, unsure how many exactly went by, how they had been spent, whether he had taken payment from his customers for goods and services rendered, or if he had even spoken to them. The hours had passed in despair and detestation in equal measure. The same base emotions that Bashir had had towards his offer, and for what? Out of obeisance to some outdated human mores clung to by this curious race who decried its enlightenment to the galaxy and yet in the eyes of so many others seemed infantile and prudish. He would chide those antiquated prejudices to his now-former friend’s face, if ever they did see each other again.  
  
It was inevitable, despite their avoidance of each other, that they would meet on the promenade. The politeness reserved for accidental brushes with strangers evaporated within the moment, and they stood mute before each other.  
  
Confronted again, Garak’s thoughts elicited such bitterness on his tongue that he had to spit out each word hoping to expel their taste.  
  
“My good doctor...”  
  
He was taken aback by the virulence with which he had never before uttered those same words.  
  
“Don’t...” Bashir cautioned, casting an eye about to see who might be watching, but people only carried on by.  
  
“Don’t?” Garak repeated measuredly. “Don't what? Don’t cause a scene? Don’t ask for an explanation? In more than one syllable.”  
  
Bashir fixed his gaze, his jaw set.  
  
“It would be better if we didn’t... associate any longer,” he said.  
  
A sneer curled the corner of Garak’s lip. His words were the more harsh for them being whispered.  
  
“Associate? My dear doctor,” he said, despite himself, since the appellation had lost the veracity with which he had once associated it, “I find it contemptible if not laughable that after all this time the proposition of increased intimacy would be of such disgust to you.”  
  
Confusion registered on the doctor’s face, but he took only a moment to understand the accusation being levelled at him. He smiled, then let out a genuine laugh. It cut to the quick.  
  
“That is where you think the problem lies?” Bashir asked, incredulous. He shook his head. “Don’t be so generous to yourself, Garak. Don’t you see?”  
  
Garak stood, staring, a long moment that turned for a fraction of a second into affection. If only nothing more was said, ever, between them, the thing might be saved. But his was met with a look that had lost its repulsion and was instead replaced by pity. Perhaps he truly was blind.  
  
“You’re too caught up in your own selfish affairs to know what I'm talking about,” Bashir accused. “Have you never thought that the amount of time we spend together, on my part at least, is more than indiscrete - it borders on treasonable: actually, if not only morally. I could never be with one of you.”  
  
Garak had lost the game: he was no longer in control, there was no way to cover his ignorance.  
  
“One of me? There is only one of me - just as there is only one of you.”  
  
The look of pity on the doctor’s face deepened.  
  
“I never believed until now that you are truly plain and simple, Garak. You are - you all are, those of you Cardassians in positions such as the one you hold, or held - offender. Oppressor. Spy, perpetrator of injustices. Call it what you will: murderer works just fine for me. Whether you did it with your own hands, or by following orders, or by looking the other way when you know very well what goes on, I don't care. Criminals.”  
  
All emotion drained from Garak’s face. The brazenness of youth assured there was nothing left. Thousands of hours spent in each other’s company, what felt already like a lifetime of companionship, reduced to a passing derision.  
  
At first he felt sadness. Hiding the insufferable hurt at the possibility that there had not been an ounce of genuine friendship in their time spent together, speechless and clothed in despair, incredulous that this was the reason for his rejection.  
  
Then - then all he felt was indignation. He thought of turning on his heel, leaving without one word as an adieu. But he couldn’t. He would stand and fight, not to defend himself or his race, but like a small child with a beloved keepsake being threatened to be confiscated, forbidden, - he would fight to keep it, keep  this  \- all they had had, whatever it had been, because he was drawn inexorably in the young doctor’s direction, and would suffer any abuse from him, but couldn’t even begin to imagine his absence.  
  
Then rage snapped, cold and sharp. Ire at the hypocrisy of the thing.  
  
“It’s very well for you, doctor,” he hissed. “You practice a black art in a white coat thinking that if it remains unstained by blood at the end of the day your hands do as well.”  
  
It did not move him, and Bashir looked at him quizzically.  
  
“You can’t seriously be comparing what I do to...” He made a noncommittal gesture with his hand in the air.  
  
“So,” Garak said with a nod, “for you, this is all easy?”  
  
“Of course it is,” Bashir said, “I'm not a spy.”  
  
At that, Garak went white with apoplexy. He didn’t raise his voice, but it became harsh with vitriol.  
  
“For you it’s that easy?!” he hissed. “But no one is ever neutral! Just some of us are just further removed from our complicity. Would you criticize the trader for trusting the providence of their goods? The judge for following the laws of the land?  
  
“And,  and, if I was, truly, a simple tailor, would I also not be worthy of contempt? Would this,” he asked, gesturing between them, “would this be easier? Would you grant me your friendship without reserve? But more importantly, would I be without guilt? But what If I sold my goods only to other Cardassians? Or if I refused to sell to them, and sold only to Bajorans? Or if I sold to everyone - equality! If I sell the uniform that clothes the soldier who goes to war to kill? Or to the rebel fighting for their own freedom, who then kills the soldier who has yet to even lift their weapon?  
  
“And so you, my ‘good doctor,’ to be above all this, chose a profession that to you is straightforward. But you come to a place without laws, hoping for intrigue, perhaps even to exact vengeance on the despised oppressors... you will never tell anyone, of course! You appease your conscience, pay your penance, by saving a few wretches in the meantime...  
  
“What happens next? You end up befriending the enemy, finding out that it’s not as black and white as you had thought, because you have to admit that even the enemy is a person. But you can justify your friendship as a service to the greater good - keeping an eye out. But when that friendship changes, deepens... Then what? It becomes too much of a commitment? To hard to admit that it’s so easy to put aside your prejudices, so you take a stand and push it away.  
  
“It becomes easy once more to demonize me. In the end, it’s easier to not be associated with me. After everything, you can turn away so easily and declare with unwavering certainty that, because of who I am, what I do, what I have done, that I deserve nothing.

“What would you have me do?” he said, his voice losing its viciousness, sad with pleading. “Take my place, change the universe, make everything right - tell me what you would have me do to achieve that. Tell me that I am worse than any other conspirator, that I deserve nothing but scorn, nothing more than pain, and nothing like happiness. And then tell me, please, I beseech you, tell me - why did you draw the line here? Why did you judge that sharing your time, sharing a meal with me, why was  that  acceptable; but that sharing a bed, sharing a life was abhorrent?”  
  
If the expression on Bashir’s face had changed at all, if he had taken in a single word, Garak couldn’t tell. But when he tried to speak, his voice was gruff, unpracticed, full of emotion.  
  
“That’s not it,” he protested weakly.  
  
“Then what is it?” Garak begged.  
  
“You don’t understand.”  
  
“I am beginning to think that neither do you.”  
  
There was nothing more to say, nothing more that could be said, and yet neither of them could leave. They stood frozen in a tableau, close to each other but not touching, neither able to meet the other’s eye, in silence. Minutes might have passed, or it might have been hours, and still it felt like not enough. Finally, Garak closed his eyes and turned his head. When he turned back a moment later, he found himself alone.  
  
*  
  
The days that followed had been even worse than the ones before. Not only did Garak miss Bashir’s physical presence, but the very essence of what had been their friendship. Only in his absence did he remark just how close they had been - never before had he noticed how often a thought would come to him of which he made a mental note to tell his friend. Now each thought was a painful reminder.  
  
It seemed as though it would have been easier had he been shoved away, verbally abused, told they would never even cross paths again - something more to grasp onto that he could hate. Despite his indignation, he couldn’t let Bashir escape from his thoughts.  
  
In an attempt to occupy himself with the mundane, he had closed his shop with the excuse of taking inventory. Still loyal to his clientele, he had posted a sign that they should knock if they needed something urgently.  
  
It was late but he didn’t want to sleep. After having started a failed count of the same shipment of thread for the fifth time, he was interrupted by a tap on the glass. Behind the pane stood the doctor, his expression unreadable. Garak stared for a moment, then as if suddenly embarrassed, looked back at the box he had been counting.  
  
Finally, he opened the door and stood back. After a moment, Bashir stepped inside, the door swishing closed behind him. He stood in front of him as if not knowing what exactly he was doing there, but it didn't matter - he was here. Suddenly feeling cornered, Garak launched his defence.  
  
“I thought you were hiding and now you come and assault me in my own shop.”  
  
“Please stop,” was all Bashir said.  
  
Garak started to busy himself by tidying the table.  
  
“I was just heading home,” he lied, “ you should go - I need to close up.”  
  
“No.”  
  
His defiance was firm. Garak faced him and scoffed.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Don't go,” Bashir said, gently this time.  
  
“Why not?!” Garak shot back at him, still affronted.  
  
“Because...”  
  
There weren’t words... Bashir stepped forward and kissed him. Surprise. Taken aback, Garak pushed him away, wide eyed, his heart paused. This,  this - what he wanted, had always wanted, even from their very first encounter. (Had it been, or had he just imagined that it had later on?) It didn't matter: this was, now, what and whom he had always desired without knowing it, and it was being given to him.  
  
The impulse of certainty passed, Bashir muttered: “Just... Just once...”  
  
It was being given to him merely to be taken away! It wasn’t just once that Garak wanted, it wasn't up for debate, or open to bargaining, it was all or nothing...   
  
Which, in the end, would leave him with nothing.  
  
He pressed his lips against the doctor’s, his doctor’s, making sure this wasn't a trick. Bashir grasped his shoulders, kissing him back, as if afraid he might run off.  
  
“Not here,” Garak murmured, tearing the sign from the door and opening it. Bashir fled, tugging Garak by the hand, releasing him as soon as they stepped outside.  
  
He knew it wasn’t shame but some sort of consideration for him that motivated Bashir to head through darkened corridors, as if he had plotted this course in advance. Had anyone seen them, Bashir strode so confidently and purposefully that they would think this was nothing more than official business.  
  
Once they reached his quarters, he swept his hand over the panel officiously, all Starfleet decorum, which immediately disappeared the moment the door sealed behind them. Bashir leapt at him again, pressed their mouths together, thirstily, and Garak responded in kind.  
  
It scared Garak that he might never know Bashir’s thoughts, the reason for why this, why now, but it mattered little. Bashir reached under his shirt, hand shockingly warm on his skin, and Garak felt the need to hide, a sudden feeling of inadequacy, as if before this moment they hadn't known one another at all, and their judgement of the other rested on this one connection, which needed to be perfect and never would be.  
  
Hastily, Bashir removed Garak’s shirt and his own, though barely a moment passed that they weren't pressed against each other. As Bashir moved to reveal the rest of him, Garak realized he was to be stripped fully naked, from all the lives he had had and the lives he had invented, all of them lives without a life, belonging to him but not his, like dolls in a museum, and the loneliness, the loneliness that he disguised as the desire to be alone...  
  
For this moment in time, at least, at last, he wouldn't be, he wasn't, though he tried not to count the seconds not to calculate how much time was yet allotted him to delight in this fulfillment.  
  
A moment later, Bashir stood equally naked like a perfectly realized bronze sculpture before him, but only for an instant before falling back onto his bed, pulling Garak on top of him, rising beneath him, grabbing his hips to draw him into the warmth, against the insistence of his arousal, and, oh, the softness, the incredible softness of the rest of his body that distinguished him in living perfection from any false facsimile.  
  
Everything now was rushed, a litany of touches, even the one quick movement in which Bashir draped the covers over them, spreading his hands to warm Garak's back, conscious, still, after only ever a single mention, that the air chilled him more easily.  
  
But this was wrong, all wrong - their staccato breath gasped between each parting of their lips, their pressing, rubbing, one body against another in a race, a rush towards the end, the best moment but only a moment - this wasn't how he had imagined it - fleeting, then nothing - it shouldn't have been happening like this, this only time... This couldn't end so soon, this wasn't how he had wanted it.  
  
They struggled against each other, incapable of harmony, their touches a hectic rain on the water's surface, obscuring it, each drop indistinguishable from the others, there but unseen, drowning, all unfelt in the enormity of sensation.  
  
So, abruptly, Garak pulled away. Stopped. And in the stillness the water was mirror-smooth, a calm reflection on which each touch became a drop rippling with intensity clear to the edges, to disappear before the next one landed. Their avarice was replaced with the savor of each caress.  
  
They looked each other in the eye then glanced away quickly, surprised by this unfamiliarity, striving to make it more familiar. Garak ran his cheek against Bashir's, the strange feel of the roughness that began to appear there late every day. He felt the odd softness of Bashir's eyebrow as he smoothed his thumb over one, a movement that elicited a smile. Under his palm, the hair on his chest, every part of him proffering heat.  
  
And in return, almost every one of his own explorations reciprocated, ending with Bashir tracing his fingers evocatively up the sides of his neck, through his hair, over the few scales that ran down to the base of his neck, all with the practiced, intense touch of a doctor, the gentle caress of a lover.  
  
When his hand fell on the curve of Bashir’s hip, cradling him there for the first time, the only time, the saltiness of restrained tears hit the back of his throat. This all needed to be over. Garak closed his eyes and, at the quickening of his pressing against him, Bashir responded until every part of his body started to tingle and his breath came in gasps, trying to repress the pathetic sounds that issued from his throat, and then, finally, he let the thing happen, too quickly, and it was over, and they were stained and exhausted and panting and lying apart, no longer touching, never to touch again.  
  
Then there was the regret, the shame at having let this happen, having been exposed, lying there drained and distant and cold. Garak wished he weren’t there, that he could disappear and be gone without having to leave. The hardest thing he would ever have to do would be to leave this room, this closeness, what could have been this life. He sat up, the sheets tousled around him, wiping himself quickly with a corner to have no reminder. He was afraid to stand in case his legs didn’t hold him up. He moved...  
  
“Elim...”  
  
The shock and thrill of hearing his name, recalling that he had an identity, that he was a person accompanied by a touch of his hand, not restraining but entreating, and the only two words he needed to hear - _don't leave_ \- no, not phrased in the negative, barring his escape, but in the positive, imploring:  
  
“Please, stay.”  
  
And in its tone, understood: not just for another moment, not just for the night, but for the rest of time, however long that decides to be.  
  
As he turned back, Bashir placed his arms around him, laying his head on his chest. For a moment Garak thought he could pass along the feeling of relief in being able to hold him, enfold him, cherish him in his embrace.


End file.
